


The Angel Room: Makael Fights

by CatherineinNB



Series: The Angel Room [12]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angel Blades (Supernatural), Angels, Canon Compliant, Episode: s14e10 Nihilism, Fights, Gen, Post-Episode: s14e09 The Spear, Season/Series 14, Season/Series 14 Spoilers, Weapons, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-24
Updated: 2019-01-24
Packaged: 2019-10-15 15:13:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17531141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CatherineinNB/pseuds/CatherineinNB
Summary: Picking up right where we left off at the end of the strategy session with Sam, Cas, and Jack, Makael arrives in Kansas City and confronts the werewolf who was sent by Michael to the cathedral on Oak Street.This entry takes place after the events of "The Spear," and during the episode, "Nihilism."





	The Angel Room: Makael Fights

**Author's Note:**

> **_The Context:  
> _ ** It all started as a way to stay connected. To know if and when it would be safe to return home. 
> 
> She styled herself a journalist. An interviewer. A fangirl.
> 
> But for the seraph Makael, a refugee from _Supernatural_ ’s universe, _The Angel Room_ has become something much, much more. 
> 
> Everything has changed.
> 
> Makael is no longer an angel who can stay safely on the sidelines. Not now. Not when she’s discovered just how much she  _ cares _ .
> 
> If she’s honest with herself, she’s scared. She’s not sure if she’ll survive, now that she’s getting directly involved.
> 
> But she also knows this: she’s done with hiding. 
> 
> And she’s ready to fight.

**_The Fight:  
_ ** When the pressure clears, and her ears pop, the first thing Makael hears is screaming.

She hasn’t arrived in the cathedral’s sanctuary, but instead in a room set up for coffee hours after Sunday morning mass. It’s empty now, and the coffee machines are silent and cold.

She swears and breaks into a run, following the sound of the screams.

When she hits the sanctuary doors, people are already pouring out into the main entry. She has to push past them, using more force than she’d like to move aside the panicked bodies that crash into her as she advances against the tide. She catches glimpses of wide, terror-stricken eyes; hears a mother screaming her son’s name,  _ Isaac _ ; literally  _ smells  _ the fear pouring off the humans—an assault of pheromones and sweat on her angelic senses. 

And then, finally, she’s inside.

She pauses, an island of stillness in the midst of people running to safety. Then she jumps in the nearest pew and scans the space, assessing.

The fucker had sat smack-dab in the middle of the congregation to wait for Michael’s signal.

She spots him standing halfway down the main aisle. It’s a big building, and the length of the sanctuary is not inconsiderable. About a third of the congregation is still inside—many are old, and can’t move quickly. Near the front of the sanctuary, a pale, but surprisingly collected young woman is quietly escorting several grey-haired congregants out a side door. 

Makael notes at least three fallen humans, two in a pew and one in the aisle, further down, who aren’t moving. 

The werewolf’s baby-face is smeared and spattered with blood, and he’s smiling at the teenage girl who’s fallen at his feet. She’s clutching a wound just above her collarbone, and there are tears streaming down her face. The girl’s eyes are huge, and her own blood is staining her hand, turning the pretty fabric of her green dress black.

The werewolf’s smile is something Makael has seen before—on the faces of those who are well aware of their own power. There’s something taunting, something profoundly self-assured in the expression; a deep-rooted confidence in their autonomy, in their ability to control.

He’s enjoying this.

She feels something hot course through her, hitting her chest, constricting her breathing. 

After a moment, she realizes that it’s rage.

Feelings. Feelings are secondary, Ketch told her, in a fight. They cloud judgement, inhibit the ability to reason, to analyse, to react. 

She hadn’t been worried about it at the time. Feelings aren’t something angels typically have to think about.

Now she understands why he brought it up.

_ You put your feelings in a box _ , he told her,  _ and you put that box aside. Until … later. _

She puts his words into practice as she drops from the pew and sprints towards the werewolf, drawing her machete.

His eyes have shifted from the teenager to a young mother, frozen in fear and cowering in the pew a few feet away, who is sheltering her children from view as much as possible. But before Makael can reach them all, a blow strikes the werewolf across the side of his head, sending him staggering.

It’s a priest.

There must be more than one, which makes sense in a cathedral of this size. She’d passed by another, a younger man, holding one of the huge doors open as wide possible to prevent a choking point as people fled. She’d allowed herself a fleeting moment of admiration that he stayed rooted to the spot, urging others to safety, when every human instinct must have been screaming for him to run. She can still hear his voice behind her, telling people to hurry, to get safe.

This priest is older, grizzled, solidly built where the other was slender.

He’s grabbed the processional cross—a solid wooden staff with a metal crucifix on top, which has wicked-looking points—and is wielding it like a club, beating the werewolf back from the teenage girl and the family in the pew. His bright blue eyes are hard and determined as he strikes again—and this time, the metal comes back bloody as the werewolf cries out in pain and falls to the ground.

A human would have stayed down from that blow, and the priest turns his attention to the girl.

But this isn’t a human.

Makael shouts a warning, knowing she’s still too far away, as the werewolf surges to his feet. But it’s too late: the priest is flying, and when he lands, he doesn’t move. There are long rips in his white vestments that turn an instant, bright crimson.

The werewolf turns in Makael’s direction.

She’d thought, when watching “The Spear,” that he had a pleasant face—not particularly bright, but pleasant. It made her wonder what his life would have been like if he’d never been bitten and turned. She’d pictured him watching the game with his bros and chowing down on pizza, and felt … sad for him.

There’s nothing pleasant about his face now. It’s distorted by the cruel, sharp teeth, of course, and the yellow-green of his irises are too large, and completely inhuman. But that isn’t what strips him of anything recognizable to Makael. It’s the sheer, blind rage in him that takes her breath away.

A small part of her mind, ever-analytical, catalogues it as the rage of the entitled: the rage of a person who’s been promised something they feel they very much  _ should _ have, only for it then to be taken away.

But the expression falters as she draws closer, and confusion flashes across the werewolf’s face.

“M—Michael?” he stutters.

She realizes that her eyes are blazing blue with her grace.

Perhaps she hasn’t boxed her emotions as effectively as she thought.

“Nope,” she says as she slips within range and swings her machete.

He’s quick. He manages to throw himself back, out of the way, and the rage settles back over his face.

But Ketch prepared her for this, too—for monsters with an extra boost of archangel grace. He coolly informed her that, yes, she might be an angel, but she’s an angel no real-world fighting experience. And while he didn’t exactly pull his punches during their training sessions, there’s only so much you can do to learn how to fight outside of actual combat. Especially since she was trying very hard  _ not  _ to accidentally hurt Ketch—even when he egged her on for being soft. 

The real thing, he told her, would be different.

_ Keep it simple, _ he said.  _ Don’t go for anything fancy, love. Just stick to the basics. Basics are effective. And keep your head. Your mind is your best asset in a fight. _

So Makael keeps it simple. And she keeps herself centered, focused, as she and the werewolf exchange blows. He’s fast; breathtakingly so. She dodges and feints away from his charges, using the longer reach of the machete to wound him, slow him down.  

_ Above all, try  _ not _ to let them get ahold of you. If you’re human, it’s almost always over then, and even for an angel it would be … unpleasant. Crushing. Rending limbs. Snapping necks. So stay on your toes, Halo. _

She ducks under the set of reaching, slashing claws and, as she slips under the werewolf’s guard, she reaches down and pulls her boot knife. When she straightens behind him, he’s howling, her knife embedded, hilt-deep, in his calf. 

He pivots on his good leg to face her, and hobbles backward. For the first time she sees fear on his face.

She’s already charging when he grabs the kid who was hiding beneath one of the pews. The boy can’t be more than thirteen. Quick as a flash, the werewolf has his claws over the kid’s throat, and an arm wrapped tightly around his arms and chest to keep the boy from struggling. He snarls a single word at Makael: “Stop!” 

Makael stops.

One of the werewolf’s claws pierces the boy’s skin. Blood wells and starts trickling. Makael’s stomach drops sickeningly. 

“Don’t hurt him.” Her voice sounds strange and flat in her own ears.

“Then let me go,” he says. The werewolf is panting, and, thanks to Makael, much of the blood on him is now his own.

She stares, even as she lowers her machete. “You’ll just hurt more people.”

“I won’t, I swear, I—” He chokes on his words, going rigid, his eyes flaring an icy blue. His fingers tighten reflexively around the boy’s throat, and another claw punctures the skin. The boy whimpers.

“You have to. You’re under direct orders from Michael, and you can’t disobey him, can you?”

The light fades from the werewolf’s eyes, leaving them that inhuman yellow-green again. There’s something like panic in them now.

“You weren’t thinking about that when you joined his army, were you?” murmurs Makael. She drops her free hand to her side as well. “You just wanted the power.”

“I—” The werewolf stops speaking, swallows hard.

“That’s what I thought.” 

She’s been inching her left hand to her waist, and now she grabs the angel blade that’s tucked into her waistband, and throws.

So much for sticking to the basics.

The blade embeds itself into the werewolf’s right eye with a sickly, wet _ thunk _ of sound.

He lets go of the boy, screaming, scrabbling at his face, but Makael is already in motion. Her machete whines through the air before connecting with his neck.

She’d expected more resistance from the parting of flesh and bone and sinew.

But his head separates from his neck, and it’s like a hot knife through butter.

She looks down at him for an instant. She watches his eyes shift back to human, the fangs change into blunt human teeth. 

She puts her feelings in a box.

She turns to face the boy, kneels to get down to his level. “Are you all right?” she asks.

He simply stares at her, blank-faced.

She looks at the punctures on his neck. “I’m going to fix where he hurt you, okay?” she says.

After a moment he nods, the slightest of motions.

She reaches out, waits another beat before touching his skin, giving him time to change his mind. She’s heard of what shock can do to humans, but she’s never dealt with one who’s experiencing it before—and the last thing she wants to do is frighten him further. She keeps her touch light, even when he doesn’t shy away, lets the golden light flare from her fingertips, watches the wounds heal as angelic energy makes the air hum.

“What are you?”

She whirls at the voice behind them, rising to her feet and putting the boy behind her. 

It’s the priest who held open the door. He’s shucked his white vestments, revealing a short-sleeved black shirt, white collar, and slacks. His dark skin is sheened with sweat.

“Angel,” she replies, shortly.

The man breathes out, taking that information in. “And … what was he?” The priest flicks a glance at the decapitated body a couple of feet away. Blood is pooling rapidly on the stone floor, looking black in the dim light of the sanctuary.

“Werewolf,” says Makael, and watches the series of expressions that cross his face carefully. “You stayed,” she adds, a question in her voice.

The man looks uncomfortable. She’s not sure if it’s her observation, or the part about angels and werewolves. “I knew there were people still hiding in some of the pews,” he says. “I couldn’t leave them behind.”

Makael nods. “His parents?” She tips her chin in the direction of the boy.

“I saw them go out the main doors—got separated from him in the scramble.”

“Go take him to them,” she says, gently urging the boy toward him. “I’ll do what I can for the wounded.” Now that the fight is over, she registers the muted sounds of sirens, hears the thrum of a helicopter somewhere overhead.

“What’s going on?” asks the priest. He sounds … lost. “It sounds like a war out there.” 

Makael looks at him grimly. “You’re not wrong about that. Go.” She puts a little bit of force into the last word, and the priest gathers himself and takes charge of the boy.

“Let’s go find your parents, Isaac,” he says, and Makael recognizes the name from when she was pushing her way past the crowd into the sanctuary. A small part of her lightens at the realization that “Isaac” isn’t one of the bodies that lie motionless on the floor.

But she’s already turned away from them and is making her way to the older priest, the one who fended off the werewolf. He’s laying where he fell, his eyes open but glazed, breath raspy. His hands are clenched over the ragged tears that start just below his breastbone and end at his gut. His vestments are slick with his own blood.

She’s not sure how much he’s able to register, but she speaks to him, tells him that she’s going to help him. He resists at first when she tries to remove his hands from the gashes in his flesh, but she’s much stronger than he is, and gently but firmly moves his hands away.

These injuries are deep, and it takes several minutes to heal him.

When the whine of her healing magic fades, his bright blue eyes focus on Makael. There’s an unspoken question in them. She rises to her feet, offers him a hand, pulls him up.

“Angel,” she said. “But most of us are—” she pauses, remembering she’s speaking to a priest. “Not very nice. So if you see anyone else like me, stay away, okay?”

His craggy brow creases, but he nods as she pulls him to his feet. 

She takes a breath to say something more, then freezes at the sound of a long, low growl behind her. 

She reaches slowly for the machete she left lying on the floor, and grips it firmly in her right hand before she straightens and turns.

The teenage girl who was wounded is also standing.

And she’s the one growling.

“No,” whispers Makael. One by one, the others who were previously motionless on the ground—dead, she thought—are also rising to their feet.  

“What’s going on?” asks the priest, behind her. His voice is gruff, but not panicked. “What’s wrong with them?”

“He turned them,” she says. “I thought—I thought he killed them. I thought he just … injured the girl. I didn’t realize it was a bite.”

“I don’t understand. Karen?” The priest takes a step towards the teenager.

Makael puts out her free hand to stop him. “She’s not herself anymore,” she says quietly. Her stomach is churning. “He made them all into monsters.”

He comes to a halt beside her as he takes in her words. “What do we do?” he asks, finally. 

She glances at him. “You get out,” she said. “And you block at the doors behind you.”

“What?” The priest scowls at her. “I’m not leaving them—or you, young lady.”

“And  _ I’m  _ not letting you die, which is what will happen if you stay,” snaps Makael.

She wants to say more, but Karen launches herself at them, snarling, her yellow-green eyes flashing in the dim light. Makael shoves the priest back behind her, yells, “Go!” and swings her blade in a wide arc in front of her, pushing Karen back as two more newly-turned werewolves charge forward. 

“Right,”yells the priest over the sound of their snarls. “But I’m waiting out there for you.” 

She keeps him in her peripheral vision as he hurries to the side door near the altar, makes sure there’s no one coming after him, hears the door slam shut behind him.

And then she focuses on surviving.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Both priests are waiting in the main entry. They’ve pushed a huge bookshelf in front of the set of double doors into the sanctuary, and so far it’s held, even when something large and heavy was thrown against it from inside. The older priest is pacing; the younger has dragged a rickety chair out from somewhere, and is seated in an attitude of prayer.

“I should be in there, Jacob,” says the older man, gesturing in frustration in the direction of the sanctuary.

Jacob lifts his head and gives the other priest a look that is both wry and understanding. “Your Vietnam days are over, Father Mackenzie,” he murmurs. “We got as many of our people safe as we could. I made sure everyone made it to their vehicles. Let the … angel handle the monsters.”

“Those are our parishioners in there,” snarls Father Mackenzie. “And it’s David, Jacob.” The last bit has the ring of an old argument.

“They were,” says Jacob, slowly. “I don’t think they are, anymore.” There is a deep sorrow in his voice.

David looks as if he’s going to argue, but he stops, suddenly alert. “It got quiet,” he says.

Jacob stands. “What is that sound?” he asks, his brow furrowing.

David was right: the sounds of snarls, thuds, things breaking have all stopped. But now there’s a low whine, and it’s rapidly increasing in volume. He grabs the younger priest’s arm, hauling him into an alcove and away from the sanctuary doors.

It’s good that he does. An instant later the heavy bookshelf goes flying, crashing into the opposite wall as the sanctuary doors slam open with a force that makes them shudder. Shelves shatter, and books go flying.

Makael steps out into the entry. Her eyes are glowing an icy blue, and she’s covered in blood—some of it her own. Her face is a blank mask, emotionless, which is a strange contrast to the tears tracking down her cheeks.

David holds Jacob back as he cautiously pokes his own head out of the alcove. 

She catches the movement.

“It’s over,” she says, softly, as the angelic light fades from her eyes. “At least,” she qualifies, “it’s over here.” There are still sirens wailing in the night—too many to track.

The two priests step out.

“Our people?” asks David.

She shakes her head. “They weren’t your people anymore. They were Michael’s.”

“Michael?” 

She laughs. It’s a bitter, stunted sound. “Remember how I told you that most of us are not very nice?”

Jacob’s eyes widen. “An angel did this?”

“An archangel, but yes.”

“Why? Is God … punishing us for something?”

“No.” The negation is immediate, and forceful. “This has nothing to do with God, and everything to do with Michael.” She shakes her head before they can ask her more. “I need to get to Hitomi Plaza.” Her voice is weary. “There are people there who … I care about them.”

“Take my car,” says Jacob immediately. “That is—if you can’t just—”

“Fly there?” she gives him a lopsided smile. “No. No wings.”

He fishes in his pocket, pulls out a set of keys, and slides one off the ring. “Here.” He steps forward, places the key in her palm. His dark eyes are gentle, even though his movements are cautious. “I’m parked around the side.”

“Thank you.” She tips her head back to look up at him. “I’m sorry I couldn’t save them all. I … tried.”

“We know you did.” Jacob’s brow furrows. He knows she’s an angel; he’s seen the evidence with his own eyes. But she looks suddenly small and fragile and … vulnerable. 

“War is always ugly,” says David. “Doesn’t matter the battlefield, young lady.” His face is bleak, and there is something haunted in his eyes. “You did your best. That’s what matters.” He takes both of Makael’s hands, and clasps them in his own. “Let me pray for you before you go.”

Makael gives him a long look, and, for a moment, looks like she is on the verge of refusing. Then she nods, bows her head. David keeps hold of both her hands; Jacob places one of his lightly on her shoulder.

There is a quiet reverence in David’s voice when he speaks again, and there is a rhythm to the words that hints he has recited them many times before—somewhere else. “Almighty and eternal God, protect this soldier as she discharges her duties. Protect her with the shield of your strength, and keep her safe from all evil and harm. May the power of your love enable her to return home in safety, that with all who love her, she may ever praise you for your loving care. We ask this through Christ our Lord … Amen.”

Jacob echoes the “Amen,” and, after a moment, so does Makael, before taking a step back.

“You both showed remarkable courage tonight,” she tells them. Then she adds, “Stay safe,” as she makes her way to the cathedral’s main doors. “And lock these behind me.”

She makes her way out into the night, and begins her journey to Hitomi Plaza.

**END SCENE.**

**Author's Note:**

> I know this was a bit of a risky endeavor--an entire fic with just Makael, and no interaction with any of Supernatural's main characters. However, I felt it was an important part of her story to tell before she meets back up with Team Free Will (2.0). I'd love your feedback about whether it worked for you or not in the context of the overall series.
> 
> My next fic will also be set during the events of "Nihilism," but will include our faves (Sam, Dean, Cas, and Jack).


End file.
